Here in the Easy Realism office, we are scared because our daddy is coming to visit tomorrow.
That’s right, I’m hiding in bed with the covers over my head; feverishly hunting for any good, Bart Simpson-style pre-emptive excuses to use in the event of questioning.
The best I can come up with is the old “I didn’t do it. No one saw me do it. You can’t prove anything!” – and hopefully it will keep any blow-ups at bay over the next two weeks.
Although my dad will be in the country, I won’t see him often as he is staying with his parents and there is a tacit agreement not to turn up uninvited; but he is a bit of a loose cannon – and a liar – so there is a constant threat of him turning up somewhere without prior consent.
With most disciplinarian-father/sexual deviant son relationships, there is far less of a distinct period between doing something shocking and being lectured for it. However, because Big Davie and I make eye contact once a year, on average; there is a lag time, and discipline builds up.
If he tries it over the phone, it just fails. I have hung up on him so many times I have lost count.
My favourite attempt at phone chastisment was when I used the word “hell” in conversation, and he told me off for using a dirty word. I was 19.
Even at that, I have managed to build up distance between us, so he knows nearly nothing about what I am doing with my life unless I tell him. Conversations have become increasingly stage managed.
Every time my dad and I see each other, I have just drastically changed something about myself which I am not used to, and through gritted teeth, he is forced to accept it. Otherwise, I will just cut him out of my life – and he knows it.
This time, the offending change is image-related: I can’t see my dad being overjoyed about my peroxide-ginger haircut. I don’t think he’s too into spikes either.
I’m not even sure if he knows what skinny jeans are, never mind having encountered them before. The poor man will think he has stepped off a plane into some deviant’s commune.
I also worry about having to show off for him – he wasn’t pleased when he found out I won the Isobel Conner journalism award and didn’t bother to tell him, so I am guessing I will have to stand in front of my trophy while he takes pictures and waxes sententiously about what he imagines my career will be like.
I am not looking forward to the emotionally fraught ramblings of a man I hardly know, who hardly knows me, on part of my life that he has had no hand in whatsoever.
I am actually unable to form whole thoughts on this issue right now – just little abstract ones. Seeing dad will either go well, and he will leave without either of us having made much of an impact on each other, or we will have had a big, damaging fight about one of the many, many contentious issues which have led to us not being able to live in the same country for more than a fortnight at a time.
I will probably see him for three hours at most over his duration in Scotland, and it has become increasingly easy for me to see him with every passing visit. It could be that we will just go for a drink and talk about the Blues; but the build up to meeting him, every time, is the most nerve racking part of my entire year.
IT’S BRITNEY, BETSY!
This video is unintentionally hilarious when you consider the dramatic irony of Britney’s entire post-2003 existence.
Sure, her videos back then were somewhat cutesy – the faux-camaraderie with Nickelodeon-friendly Melissa Joan Hart of “(You Drive Me) Crazy” an innocent precedent to her involvement with the Hilton/Lohan set, and the visuals of a schoolgirl doing high kicks in minimal underwear in hindsight look as sexually repressed as Wednesday Addams; but “From The Bottom Of My Broken Heart” just too obviously appeals to Bible-belt America.
The disturbing imagery of that big pre-second-wave-feminism billboard and that cutesy haircut is all too much for the Easy Realism staff: we see right through your faked virginity.
Even the mother and younger sister are inaccurate – surely the Spears family are too busy blowing their way to success to wave off one of their own; even when she is escaping her (I assume) womanising, 30-year-old “first boyfriend”.
Also, notice that she has no dad in the video. He was probably killed by his own daughter after years of sexual abuse trauma was manifested in a shot to the head. Not even fictional families are perfect.